Balazs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Southern Comfort

“Shut up, Chumak” comes Ivanchuk’s voice.

Tarasov hears something like footsteps approaching. He raises his left fist, ordering the others to stop. He aims his weapon and a shadow moves into the red dot sight of his rifle. As the emergency light’s red beam flashes for a second in its direction, a human silhouette emerges from the darkness. Without hesitation, he fires two short, noise-suppressed bursts. Tarasov hears the man gasping and pulls the trigger again. The man emits a shout, intended as swearing but ending in a gasp of pain. His rifle fires a burst into the ground as death spasms his fingers. At last he falls. Two seconds have passed since he appeared, maybe three. Strange, Tarasov thinks. That fellow was pretty heavily armored for a Stalker.

Staying in cover, Tarasov peeks around the corner. The room is dimly lit by another faint emergency light. A thick concrete column blocks his view, but he senses no movement. He gives a signal to Kolesnik.

“It’s too quiet there… suspiciously quiet. See that red fuel drum? Make some noise.”

The sergeant removes a frag grenade from his belt, pulls the safety, waits for a few seconds, and then throws it in the shown direction. In the moment the grenade lands, someone inside shouts cover! but is silenced by the detonation. After a split second a much louder detonation follows as the fuel drum explodes into a blinding ball of fire. The major hears the noise of metal shreds whizzing through the air, mixed with desperate screams. He shouts, Go, go, go! and jumps down the stairs into the room. His Geiger counter starts ticking frantically. Two bodies lie on the ground but Tarasov ignores them as he scans the next room, once an elevator station, for further targets. His night vision is too weak to light up the corners and he doesn’t want to switch on his headlight — it would turn him into an illuminated target for hostiles wanting to practice headshots.

“All clear,” he says, “let’s move on.”

But Chumak, who is in the catacombs for the first time, stands in front of two huge tanks, which might contain poison or worse, staring at the glowing green substance beneath them. The substance is moving, looking like boiling green water in slow-motion. He is about to touch it when Ivanchuk pulls him back.

“That’s a Fruit Punch, rookie. An anomaly. One step closer and the acid will consume your dick in a second.”

“There’s more of that shit here in the underground than mushrooms in a forest,” Kolesnik remarks. Tarasov is about to tell them to keep quiet when the other sergeant shouts out.

“Enemies detected!”

Shumenko doesn’t wait for the major’s order and releases a long burst into the elevator chamber. Now it’s the major’s turn to throw a grenade. Another deafening explosion sounds but the enemy keeps firing. The lieutenant leaps forward, firing his AKSU assault rifle. Silence falls. Tarasov points to the round chamber in front of them, with a massive pillar in the middle.

“Ivanchuk, you and Kolesnik to the left. Shumenko, on me. Chumak, you stay behind me.”

Slowly and with weapons ready, they enter the chamber. Below their feet, rusty iron grates cover corroded pipes, disappearing into the ground. A lever stands in the middle, the turning wheel having fallen off. Above them, the metal tubes of a ventilation system follow the curve of the walls, here and there lacking a few cover pieces.

“Keep your eye on those open tubes,” Tarasov warns his squad with a whisper, “I don’t want any stray snorks jumping on our heads.”

“All clear. Coming through.”

Tarasov lowers his Val when he sees the lieutenant appearing from the other side. In front of them, a staircase leads to the level below.

“Shall we?” Ivanchuk asks. Tarasov shakes his head.

“Watch the stairs. Keep your eyes peeled, Lieutenant. I want to check out those bodies before we go below.”

Now that the area is cleared of enemies and with the only exit under watch, Tarasov switches off his night vision and turns on the headlight. He approaches the Stalker shot by the lieutenant.

“Good shot, Ivanchuk,” he says, loud enough for the sergeants to hear it as well. The corpse lying in the light circle before him is wearing a tactical helmet with an integrated gas mask, its tube attached to his dark blue body armor’s breathing system. His bulletproof vest has been penetrated by five armor-piercing rounds from Ivanchuk’s AKSU. Even in his death, he holds his outdated, but still deadly G36 assault rifle.

“Shumenko, take over the guard. Lieutenant, come over here.” Tarasov points at the corpse. “This was no Stalker but a mercenary. Our intel was bad, like usually.” The lieutenant nods and kneels down to remove the gas mask from the corpse. “Don’t. I’d rather not see his face.”

“And if it was a pretty woman, sir?”

“You’re one sick son of a bitch, Lieutenant. You better find something that the intel guys could use… maybe they’ll do a better job next time.”

“But if it’s a woman and I find a lipstick, can I keep it? My girlfriend…”

“Cut your stupid jokes, for God’s sake. You’re not even remotely funny.”

Tarasov searches the other bodies. They all wear the same gear, meaning they indeed belonged to the group of mercenaries who occasionally appear in the Zone. Unlike Stalkers, they not only hunt for artifacts but for the occasional human target as well, be it a Stalker carrying a special artifact or one who didn’t deliver what he was supposed to on time. And, being far better equipped and trained than ordinary Stalkers, they also cause headaches for the army when they appeared close to the strictly no-go areas around the secret laboratories. Tarasov’s search proves futile — one body was blown to pieces by the exploding fuel drum, and on the other he only found two first-aid kits.

“Nothing useful here, sir,” Ivanchuk reports.

“No surprise… After all, no merc would be stupid enough to carry his mission orders with him. Dammit… A band of mercenaries in our territory is the last thing we need.”

“I suggest we report this to the base, komandir .”

Tarasov checks his radio. “No signal. Anyway, we still have something else to do… Let’s go down.”

It gets darker with each step as they carefully descend the winding metal staircase. The ground below is dotted with bubbling green anomalies, illuminating the tunnel with green glow. Now Tarasov can even hear their noise: a sizzle echoing like a chorus of monsters in the darkness, as if communicating with each other in a deep, foreboding whisper. His Geiger counter ticks faster.

“Turn off the headlights,” he orders. The anomalies glow strong enough to illuminate their surroundings. On the far end of the tunnel, an emergency light shows the direction. Tarasov can only hope that if there are any enemies here, they will make a clear silhouette against the dim beam of light.

“Stick to the wall. Skirt the anomalies,” he whispers to Chumak.

He looks down for a second as the technician stumbles over a fallen pipe. Immediately, he feels a steel fist hitting his chest. Then he hears the rifle shot. He wobbles to the wall, his hand instinctively touching the spot where he was hit. Shumenko fires a long burst with Kolesnik’s rifle joining in.

“Shit,” somebody shouts, “he came out of nowhere!”

“Major, are you hit?”

“I’m… fine, Lieutenant,” Tarasov replies as he stands up with a groan. He is glad that the visor of his tactical helmet hides the pain on his face. His heavy armor caught the bullet, but the impact was strong like the hit of a hammer. His chest is left bruised and sore. Thank God for my SKAT suit.

“Let’s keep moving!”